


The Voyage Out

by BreathingSpace



Category: Dark Matter - Michelle Paver
Genre: Epistolary, F/F, First World War AU, everyone lives!!, hospital ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 12:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17001621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreathingSpace/pseuds/BreathingSpace
Summary: Jack Miller would like nothing other than to operate the radio and be left alone.





	The Voyage Out

**1 st August, 1915**

Portsmouth

 

Written records forbidden in case of falling into the hands of Jerry. Decided to say a most vehement fuck that to that particular rule. Will need to if I’m going to survive length of time without committing treason/mutiny. Diary stashed under bunk mattress. Will write backwards if I have to.

Arrived in P-mouth after bloody hellfire getting down on the train. Stations all packed with businessmen from Surrey et. al. coming up to Town for a jolly. Expenses for fare like getting blood out of a stone. I think they were rather hoping that I’d give up and make my own way down. Happy to have put a spanner in the works of that little plan.

 

Arrived at D- for debriefing and final timetabling regimen. Exhausting. Little men know I’m here in a professional capacity and would rather I don’t get ideas about being above them, despite doing a job none of them are qualified enough to do. So it goes. Embarking tomorrow AM. System of watches etc. in which I will be paired with a naval officer who will do, I expect, precisely fuck all. I can now detach an artificial limb in seven and a half seconds.

 

_21:25pm_

Dinner (glutinous mass) and tea (stewed to death with sugar). Collapsed into bed twenty minutes ago only to be woken again by crashing and high spirited giggling from the hall. I imagine this is all quite like boarding school if you’re the type. ‘Matron’ (I am not making this up) is some strapping blonde Girls’ Own type. I wish she’d stick her oar in and tell them all to be quiet.

 

_21:30pm_

Matron’s voice from the hall. That solves that mystery.

 

 

**2 nd August 1915**

Somewhere off P-mouth

 

There is no way this can get worse. They woke me up _three times_ in the night with their various crashings about, and then had the nerve to complain about being tired and wet on the jolly boat over. I felt like banging their heads together. You’re _on a hospital ship_ , of course you’re bloody wet. You’re nurses! You’ll be covered in worse fluids by the end of the day. God, I hope you are. Yet another debriefing in the ‘gun room’ (they aren’t allowed to call it a wardroom because we aren’t officers). The nurses won’t be allowed in, thank God. They have their own common room in the middle of ship (or whatever they call it). There’s a hulking tea urn and a sink. A mismatched selection of tin mugs which conduct all the heat onto your soft palate. Bloody ‘Matron’ was there (her name is _Augusta_ ) and I got introduced to the Officer on Watch [OOW] that I’ll be radioing for. If I thought Augusta was bad, he’s called bloody _Algernon_. I’m stuck in a Tory party conference and I can’t even have a proper cup of bloody tea. I’m on ‘second starboard’ watch alongside the both of them, which also means I’m going to be keeping night hours while writing all of Algernon’s bloody missives about how many U-Boats he hears. I hope he doesn’t try and talk to me.

 

Lifeboat drill. Almost lost a nurse overboard.

 

I’m worried that ‘Matron’ (bouncing, bubbly, blonde &etc) is trying to befriend me. She asked me if I preferred Jacqueline or Jackie earlier on over tea and acted surprised when I told her ‘Jack’, as if that isn’t what I’ve been insisting on being called for ten weeks now. She tried to find that common ground that the upper classes do when they sense they’re in the company of their social inferiors. Apparently she goes by ‘Gusta’ or ‘Gussie’, and hates the name ‘Gus’. I suppose I know what I’ll be calling her from now on.

 

HMHS _Wessex_ moderate sized pleasure cruiser requisitioned from some tourist line up near the Orkney and Faroe islands. I have my own cabin, thank God. Not standard practice, but the cruisers have more cabin room than the purpose build supply or troop ships. Of course, the five other radio operators are men. My delicate feminine brain might be overcome with the desire to be swept up in the big strong arms of Hugo from Tonbridge. Shall make myself comfortable. Might see about getting a lock on the door.

 

_17:20pm_

Against regulations to have locks, in case I am to trip over my knickers and get knocked unconscious by the bedframe.

 

_17:48pm_

About to go on first watch. Scarfed ‘dinner’ (fried egg sandwich) and have to meet with the outgoing operator for handover. New OOW (Algernon) will be there as well. Hope he doesn’t try and talk to me.

 

_00:20am_

I am going to kill Algernon Carlisle and make it look like bloody accident.

 

**3 rd August, 1915**

THERE IS A DOG ON BOARD!! A full sized adult dog! Appeared in the _heads while I was having a shower _and tried to expect me to be its friend! Dragged my uniform on, still half soaking, and took it to the wardroom almost on its hind legs. Who would bring a _dog_ on board? To a _hospital ship_? Sheer bloody madness. It’s probably some officer’s pet. They’re like a religion to the Dartmouth class. Dog lolloped good-naturedly alongside me like an idiot. Banged on the door and presented dog, dripping puddle on the floor, only to be told ‘Oh, that’s Isaak’.

I told them I don’t care what its bloody name is, I want it off the ship.

‘It’ good for morale, Jack’, said someone, and who should it be standing there? Augusta! Bloody Gus! How on earth she had weaselled her way in was anyone’s guess. They all know each other, these golden Oxbridge types. I stood there in the wet, half-dressed holding on to a dog twice the size as I am and stared at her incredulously. I had also managed to ladder my tights. ‘The men like him,’ she told me, as if I didn’t know what morale was.

‘And what if he takes off with a bandage in his mouth? Or finds his way into the galley? Do we sterilise the whole ship? Evacuate the area so the dog can be more comfortable? I’m not hunting it down through hell and high water because it’s pinched some poor bugger’s prosthetic.’

Gus laughed, and I hated her. ‘No-one expects you to do that, Jack. It’s a big ship. You don’t have to have anything to do with him’.

‘He walked in on me in the shower!’

Someone sounded startled to the side of me, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. The dog was a nuisance.

‘I’ll see to it that it doesn’t happen again,’ said Gus calmly. God, it was like being spoken to by the Head Girl. I was at a loss for what to say back. I settled for ‘See that you do’ and hoped that it sounded more decisive than I fear it did. I shut the dog in with them.

 

_08:15_

I was more angry about having my shower cut short than anything. After I collected the last of my belongings (chiefly, shoes) from the heads and made sure everything in my housewife was my own I was frozen almost literally solid. Water is strictly rationed. The blokes aren’t allowed to shower almost at all, unless they’re in the galleys. They like us women to be clean. I imagine nobody liked to dwell particularly on the alien workings of the feminine form to justify such an extravagance.

 

Christ, I can’t believe I stormed the length of the ship half-dressed to shout at a man about a dog. At least there are no troops embarked yet, so I might stand a chance of not gaining a (rightful) reputation as a harpy. And the dog came out of it better than I did! must remember to try and keep some semblance of dignity.

 

_08:23_

If that dog gets in my way in any shape or form I’ll put it in a dingy and ship it off to the Front.

 

_08:28_

Is Gus an officer? That would make it officers’ briefing that I marched wetly into.

 

_08:54_

Breakfast (egg sandwich _again_ ). Finally setting sail this morning, 09:00 London time. Which means about 09:30 by the Navy’s watch. Docking around 11:30 French. Taking on first casualties from east of the Belgian border. Minor warship presence thanks to the Kaiser’s fondness for his _unterseeboots_. May go out on deck to see us off.

 

_08:55_

May not want to write in German in the future, Jack.

 

 _10:23_ (London Time)/ _11:23_ (French Time)

Guess who I met out on deck. There really are only a limited amount of places to be on a ship.

 

Not to say that the decks were deserted; almost everyone who wasn’t actively involved in driving the ship appeared to wave us off at some point. We’d been docked out towards the Isle of Wight in order to give us ‘deep water access’ (whatever that means), so it wasn’t quite the harbourside send-off one would imagine. Still, I was standing there, enjoying the wind and the brief respite of sun on my face, when who should appear but Gus.

She braced her forearms on the railings and leant out to see, like a tall ship captain. I rather hoped she wouldn’t speak to me, but then she did and I wanted for nothing else but to suddenly pitch headlong overboard.

‘You’ve dried off,’ she said with a smile. I clenched my teeth.

She didn’t take my silence as a deterrent. It seemed to spur her on. I imagine she’s so used to being oh-so-personable and friendly. What a surprise to meet someone who doesn’t instantly love her!

‘They used to take her up to the Faroe Islands, the _Wessex_ ’, she said. Carried on saying when I didn’t reply; ‘Across the way out to Norway, sometimes. Up to Svalbard, to see the bears. I’d love to go, one day.’

‘Would you.’ I asked, not caring.

‘Wouldn’t you?’

When I didn’t say anything back, she said ‘So tell me about yourself, Jack.’

I glanced at her in surprise, against my better judgement. Of all the ripostes I’d expected, a genuine enquiry into my life was not on the agenda at all. Not that I would tell her. I tossed my hair out of my eyes (I hadn’t been able to fasten it properly before it dried into the tangle to which it had become accustomed) and said nothing.

She chuckled, low in her throat. She has a deep voice, a honeyed, moneyed tone which I suspect she puts on to seem more like one of the boys. No woman speaks like that when she doesn’t have to.

‘Jack,’ she said, seeming lower and richer than ever. ‘You’re so extreme.’

That did it. ‘And what do you mean by that?’ I asked, leaning on one arm to square up to her more easily. She is taller than me – she cannot be smaller than six foot, and wide with it – and I tried to make up for that by setting my jaw and looking at her dead on.

She smiled _again_ , like we were schoolyard chums. Or like I was a young upstart who she’d been sent to benevolently tutor. ‘You’re so... angry’. She tailed off.

‘I know.’ I had been told this plenty of times before.

‘I read in your file that you’re a graduate.’

‘Did you.’ I replied, not wanting this to turn into a meeting of like minds. I didn’t even have to ask if she’d gone to university. Of course she had. There would be a family college – Somerville, or Caius – where all of the Balfours went. There was probably a bust of one of them in the quad.

‘Physics, wasn’t it?’

‘If you’ve read my file, you should know.’ I faced back out to sea, feeling the engine thrum beneath my feet. It was an oddly wholesome sensation. So much power. So much energy. I could only see her from the corner of my eye, propped up in much the same position as me, but I could _feel_ her smile.

‘You’re right. I do.’

We stood in silence.

It can only have been for a few moments. The wind was stiff with salt, a rough tang which scoured across my skin and scuffed itself into my hair. I closed my eyes, feeling it. Feeling the engines. Hearing the gulls. Feeling the insidious cold of the ship work its way through my tight woollen sleeves.

‘They say you can hear the guns, when the wind is right’.

She was still there, then.

‘Mm,’ I said, noncommittally.

The wind rippled across the hair by my ears. I heard her say ‘The poetry of the earth is never dead.’

For the second time, and the second time against my better judgement, I found myself looking at her in astonishment. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

‘Keats,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I replied.

She faced back out towards the open water. ‘Keats went to King’s College.’

‘I’m aware’

‘So did Florence Nightingale, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘You aren’t’.

I knew what she was trying to do, so I turned around and left.

 

I suppose I shouldn’t have done it? No, but what else would I do. I know her type. She’ll try and be my best friend if I’m not careful. There’s a reason I make a point of not mixing with other women.

 

_11:56_

All times now in French, unless otherwise stated. Bells just gone for afternoon watch. Hope Algie has his ears open for any enemy U-Boats.

 

_16:30_

Just got off watch and debriefed incoming radio operator. Algie generated so many pages to transcribe I might charge him by the letter. Considerably less obnoxious today. I think he’s been knocked by some of the fellows who’ve come aboard.

 

They’re all in now, the weak and the wounded. We’ve lost three since we docked, and another two were brought in already dead. Apparently its quite common to lose so many this early on. The change shocks the system. And they’ve been waiting on the harbour floor for God knows how long. They’re in the Dead Room until we can bury them at 12:00 tomorrow. Everything has to be done by the book.

 

Nurses scurrying to and fro with so many pans of water/buckets/bloody bandages/cups of tea they have hardly said a word.

 

_16:32_

How dare she! How dare she stand there and make a valiant attempt to make me feel at ease with myself! All that quoting bloody Keats. She’s working her way through the book of ‘How to Relate to the Poor’. No. 1: Assure them you aren’t so different. My God, she’s one of those types who fancies that she can see everything from her ivory tower. Of course I know who went to my alma mater! (Do you like that gratuitous Latin, Gus?) Is she meant to assure me I’m clever? Of course I am! Why does she think I’m here?

 

_17:03_

Noise on ship altogether different.

 

_17:08_

When they groan it’s like machinery

 

_18:43_

Arrived back from dinner. Gus was there. Dinner was late (not allowed adequate time to agglutinate in the pan). She was washing dishes. I said nothing. She put a cup of tea beside me. So tired I drank it without thinking. Water quality got worse in the seven hours since we’ve been functional. Put it down again.

‘Not up to scratch?’ she asked

‘Don’t like sugar,’ I said, barely looking up. She sat opposite me and took it off the table. Met my eyes and drank, with her mouth exactly where my lips were.

 

_18:45_

Dinner horrible, as usual.

 

_19:34_

Bloody dog is back! I can hear it pawing outside my cabin. Going to petition the Captain to have it removed. God hopes it doesn’t find its way into the dead room.

 

_20:53_

Must have fallen asleep. Woke up to door knock. Thought it was the dog again. Paper pushed under my door. Casualty lists to encode before watch at 00:00. Losses steady [two more]. Maybe she thinks I like Keats? Too pastoral for my tastes, but I can’t say I hate him.

Good God, was it only twelve hours ago that dog surprised me in the shower?

 

_22:01_

Another knock! Am I ever to sleep? Some poor poppet lost on her way to the common room.

 

_23:34_

Overslept & late for middle watch. Watch system swapped because some prat fell over a coil of rope and broke his leg. Shipped him back to P-mouth to avoid taking up a needed bed. Serves him right. Algie and I moved as a pair.

 

Another piece of paper on the floor! Enclosed:

 

‘ _A Song About Myself:_

 _There was a naughty girl,_  
   A naughty girl was she,  
She would not stop at home,  
  She could not quiet be-  
      She took  
      In his knapsack  
      A book  
      Full of vowels  
      And a shirt  
      With some towels,  
      A slight cap  
      For night cap,  
      A hair brush,  
      Comb ditto,  
      New stockings  
      For old ones  
      Would split O!  
      This knapsack  
      Tight at's back  
      She rivetted close  
   And followed her nose  
      To the north,  
      To the north,  
   And follow'd her nose  
      To the north.

 

\- J. Keats (1818)

 

_From one fan to another – I meant no offence_

_-A.B_

**Author's Note:**

> Gunroom - Wardroom, but for junior officers. In this case, the senior women  
> OOW - Officer on Watch
> 
> I know Jack canonically went to UCL, but King's College were the first uni in the UK to offer degrees to women and also UCL sucks.
> 
> Poem is Keats' 'A Song About Myself'  
> Title taken from Virginia Woolf's (another KCL-er) 'The Voyage Out' (1915)


End file.
